Prince Eugene, meanwhile, was on his way to visit the Duchess of Orleans. She met him with unaffected cordiality, and gave him a hearty welcome.
"Indeed," said she, extending both her hands, "I am rejoiced to see you again. I made you many a visit of inquiry during your illness; and it pained me deeply to hear from your grandmother that no effort of those who love you had so far prevailed upon you to leave your room. I am glad to see that your heart is returning to us, for you know that I am foremost in the rank of your friends."
"I know it, gracious lady," said Eugene, feelingly, "and for that reason I am here."
"And although you are pale, you are looking well. You have a brave spirit, Eugene, and have met your sorrow like a man."
"Yes. Suffering has made a man of me, and he that has received its chrism with courage has overcome grief. I have come to give your highness a proof of my fortitude. I"—but he paused, and his face grew of a deadly pallor, while a convulsive sigh was upheaved from his bosom.
"Speak, poor boy," said the duchess, compassionately.
"I wanted to ask if your highness has news from the Marchioness de
Bonaletta?" resumed he, with an effort.
"Yes," replied the duchess, mournfully.
"Has she written to you?" was the hurried rejoinder.
The duchess shook her head. "She has not, and thereby I judge that she is closely watched. For, if my darling were free to do so, she would long ago have poured her sorrows into my heart. Sometimes I feel her soft arms twining about my neck, and hear her voice, as, in the simplicity of her trust, she said to me one day: 'Pray for me, that I may never love, for if I should, I would forsake every thing for the man of my choice—even yourself, my best friend.'"